


Death's Game

by PrinceMathias



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Harry is a professional quidditch player, This was originally a one-shot au that got out of hand, Tom Riddle in Harry Potter's time, Tom is a professional killer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceMathias/pseuds/PrinceMathias
Summary: Harry Potter's life as a semi-self-functioning adult was just starting out when the universe threw this new hurdle at him.Apparently he was one of the people lucky enough to be chosen by some sort of deity to play in a messed up killing game. Yeah, that's really his life now.And to make matters worse, his partner in the game is Tom Riddle, a certified genius who seems like he'd rather stab himself than actually cooperate with Harry. The absolute worst thing about their partnership though is that Harry isn't sure if he's more terrified and slightly annoyed by or attracted and in awe of the man.A series of connected drabbles.





	1. Welcome Player One

Firewhiskey is not your friend.

That charming piece of advice was originally heard from Hermione, who had snatched a cup full of said beverage out of his hand before replacing it with a Butterbeer, way back at the beginning of fifth year, during a Gryffindor party celebrating a spectacular win to start off the Hogwart's Quidditch season.

Harry was sincerely regretting forgetting those wise words as his vision swam. The last thing he could remember, he was drinking his third (fourth?) glass at the afterparty for his team's second consecutive win in the season. Luis Cromwell and Anastasia Boot, two of the three chasers, had cornered him in a booth in the small wizarding pub and kept him from even the hope of staying sober as they called for more Firewhiskey. Pretty Anastasia Boot with the long black hair and the mean right hook, had sat there and told him that he was the first decent seeker the team had had since she joined the team six years ago. Luis, meanwhile, had already been thoroughly drunk by the time he had latched onto Harry, and was half sobbing, half singing about how they were all so lucky that Harry chose to join the tiny, practically unknown team of the Greenwich Grims instead of the famous, big name teams he could've gotten in with his talents.

Harry hadn't felt comfortable enough to say he joined the team out of honor of his late godfather, and so had instead jokingly admitted he joined because the team's colors of grass green and black complimented his eyes.

His memory of the rest of the night is hazy at best and completely blank at worst. Long story short, he has no idea where he is or how he got here and the raging hangover is really not helping him figure it out.

Blindly palming his pocket revealed that he was currently wandless but thankfully fully clothed. Harry wasn't quite sure what he'd do if he had woken up sans clothes but it probably wouldn't have been pretty.

As his vision finally cleared for the most part, the teen took in the place he had awoke. It was small, for lack of a better word. Cramped, definitely. In fact, Harry would bet his broom that he had once more awoken in a cupboard. At least this cupboard was larger than the one under the stairs even if it seemed almost smaller due to the multitude of _stuff_ within it.

Magical gadgets and doodads aplenty, a swinging hanging down lantern for light and absolutely no door in sight. How lovely.

Harry couldn't even name a quarter of the things in sight. He recognized a sneakoscope, a crystal ball, a remembrall, a witching glass and a foe glass, a fairy finder, a miniature diorama of the insides of a centaur, and what could very possibly be a withered and stuffed Jarvey carcass, but the rest was a mystery.

A loose scrap of paper hanging off a shelf caught his eye and he quickly grabbed it. On the yellow frayed paper written in what looked like half dried blood, sat a message clearly written for him.

_Holly and phoenix feather, 11 inches, expertly crafted. What a pretty little item to add to my collection. If you want it back, you must first find a few items within my collection and offer them in exchange._

_1\. That which swallows the light._ __  
_2\. That which cannot be broken._  
_3\. That which was born but never lived._  
_4\. That which lived but was never born._  
_5\. That which is loudest before and after silence._  
_6\. That which cannot be forgotten by the one who lost it._  
_7\. That which brings happiness in suffering._

_Once you collect all seven, place them in the rune circle on the ground. If you chose the right items, your wand will be returned to you and the path forward will open. However if you chose the wrong items, be warned that the loss of your wand will be the least of your worries._

A riddle. Great, just great. Harry had only managed to get inside the Ravenclaw Tower five times within the entirety of his Hogwart's years, despite knowing it's location since second year. Riddles were not Harry's expertise. Where's Hermione when you need her?

After several minutes of cursing and fumbling and rubbing his eyes to alleviate his migraine, Harry got to work trying to puzzle out which objects went with which hint.

After an inordinate amount of time trapped within a cramped cupboard, Harry was left looking over the items he had placed in the rune circle and was ready to activate it. He just hoped to whoever was out there that he had chosen the right objects out of the hoard.

That which swallows the light, a cloak made out of lethifold skin. That which cannot be broken, a celtic knot made out of thestral tail hairs. That which was born but never lived, a disgusting jar of a grindylow fetus. That which lived but was never born, a charmed mouse that was permanently transfigured from what was probably a couch pillow (an almost unheard of piece of powerful magic that would have Hermione drooling). That which is loudest before and after silence, a stuffed carcass of a Jobberknoll (the collection's owner must be a fan of taxidermy as it and the Jarvey were barely the beginning of the amount of stuffed dead animals Harry found). That which cannot be forgotten by the one who lost it, a severed hand that had Harry gagging as he touched it. And last but not least, that which brings happiness in suffering, a hat charmed with a nasty hex that reversed emotions (Dean, who had become a trainee mediwizard had mentioned the hex once in regards to a very temporary cure for depression and suicidal behavior).

With a harsh breath the smelt of stale alcohol, Harry reached down and pressed bot hands palm down on the outer edges of the circle before _willing_ his magic to flow into the runes. Each one lit up, the dust caking the cupboard floor rising up with the magical pressure before each item within the circle disappeared at once, replaced with a very familiar and welcomed sight.

Seven years of having his wand almost always in constant contact with him made the lack of it almost physically painful. It was a relief to pick up his wand and feel the phantom phoenix fire burst throughout his veins. Small golden sparks emitted from the wand tip, much like how it had when he was eleven and first introduced to magic. His wand had apparently missed him too.

The runes continued glowing, however and the light spread along cracks in the floor to the edges of one of the shelves. Wary, Harry gripped his wand tighter before wrestling up his old Gryffindor courage and pushing on the glowing shelf. The shelf quite easily swung out and opened up to a narrow and short hallway with a door at the end. With only a quick glance back at the cramped space he had spent the past few hours digging through junk in, Harry inched down the hallway with his hand clenched tight around his wand in anticipation for something to happen.

As if to spite him, nothing at all jumped out or moved or appeared from nowhere and before he knew it he was in front of the door.

The door was pure metal with no handle or knob, the only decoration another frayed yellow note for Harry and a red handprint painted on under it.

_You who have been Chosen, continue on if you want a chance to win._

That was it. That was all the note said in the writing that still looked more like blood than ink. No new riddle or clue to open the door. Just a cryptic statement that said absolutely nothing.

First of all, he was _Chosen_? Chosen for what? By who? And a chance to win _what_?

Harry certainly had no idea and he honestly didn't want to know. He just wanted to be back at Grimmauld and have Regulus lecture him on the dangers of getting drunk in public places. It would be a lot more comforting than creepy notes and riddles and taxidermic animals and _severed hands_.

A small panic attack later Harry was staring at the handprint. It was a right hand and directly under the note speaking of continuing on. Transferring his wand to his left hand, Harry threw caution to the wind and pressed his right over the imprint.

Much like the runes of before, the handprint lit up in bright light, only this time it nearly blinded him and brought his headache back in ferocious tenacity. What was worse than his pounding head however was the pain of his hand. It felt like he had stuck his hand into an open fire or on a stove burner again (Aunt Petunia in a certain fit of nastiness had held his hand on one for a few seconds when he was five, he had never wanted to feel that pain again).

Within a few more seconds the light died down as did his startled pained scream, and the metal door slowly opened up with a long and loud _creak_. Harry immediately snatched his hand away and inspected it for the burn he was sure would be there.

Instead of the expected third degree burn, his hand was clear except for a black mark on his palm. It looked much like a muggle tattoo, black and unmoving. It was a mark of the front half of a snake with jaws wide open to strike while on the back half of the snake, the scales turn into lightning streaks. It was pretty in a macabre way but in no way would it be something Harry wanted permanently etched on his palm.

A quick curling and uncurling of his fingers to check for sure that his hand wasn't damaged and Harry was ready to leave this hallway behind him. The mark could be investigated later, for now he had a way out and out was what he wanted.

The door quickly slammed behind him once he was passed it. Harry made sure to give it the most unimpressed scowl he could make, which was pretty unimpressed considering he had learned it from Snape.

He was now in another hallway that branched off left and right and then branched off again. Remembering the handy little 'hug the right' trick he learned in primary to escape mazes hand him going right, then right again, and then right _again_ into a open room.

The room was mostly empty other than a couple of crates lying around. As Harry had always possessed the curiosity of a cat despite the trouble it always landed him, he couldn't help himself in opening them up and taking a look.

One of the four crates was filled with tablecloths and was immediately abandoned. Another was filled with loose nails, screws, buttons, and keys and was similarly abandoned. The next one was filled halfway with empty charmed backpacks and satchels. Harry took a small brown leather pack with an extremely large space charm and a featherlight. It could come in handy and he deserved something for this ordeal.

It was the last crate that had him pausing. It was completely empty other than a hunting knife and a muggle handgun. Harry took the knife without problem and stuck it in his backpack but the gun... Harry had never even seen a real gun before. Sure he knew how they worked vaguely, Dudley was fond of shows on the telly with excessive violence, but he didn't know if it was smart to take it. His decision was made as he cautiously picked it up and remembered that he _wanted to get out of whatever hellhole he had fallen in_.

So after tucking the gun into his pack, Harry left the room and continued following the right.

Three more hallways and five more rooms (from which a few rolls of bandages, some water bottles, and a handful of unbreakable empty potion vials were added to his pack), and Harry turned another right only to run headfirst into a very defined (and rather painful) chin.

The teen muttered a curse before looking at what, or rather who, he had ran into. It was an older man, a few years older than him, who was rubbing his chin and glaring at Harry with rather intimidating red-brown eyes.

He was wearing a fancy black muggle suit without the vest and tie, which looked unfairly good on him but struck Harry as almost _wrong_. He had seen this man before, he was sure of that, but it was _not_ in muggle clothes.

Apparently his staring had taken too long as the familiar stranger backed up further from the teen, face showing clear disgust, as he snarled somehow elegantly, "Of course the first person I run into would be a drunken slob."

Harry blinked once, twice before looking down at himself to compare. Yes, he could see how the man came to that conclusion with the stale smell of Firewhiskey coating his clothing and breath. His shirt was green with a black grim on the front, a trademarked shirt of his team he got for free. It and his black jeans were crinkled beyond belief with dirt and dust covering them, but what could be expected after sleeping on a dirty cupboard floor.

Compared to the man and his perfectly neat hair and perfect clothes and perfect _perfectness_ , Harry most definitely resembled a drunken slob. Even their shoes showed a clear divide between them, with Harry's worn trainers and Mr. Perfect's shiny black boots.

Deciding to try to make amends (this was the first person he had ran into too and he would rather have the company in this labyrinth), Harry quickly began babbling, waving his arms in front of him.

"I'm not usually-- That is I was just, uh," a quick drop of the hands to his side, face burning in shame, before he thrusted his right hand out in front of the man's chest to shake, "I'm Harry. Potter that is. Harry Potter."

The stranger's unamused stare began to make him sweat before the red-brown eyes were focused intently upon his right hand. Or more specifically, his right palm. The man's own hand came up, not shake the proffered hand but to take it to clinically inspect it.

A long finger traced the lines of the mark, up and down the half-snake, half-lightning's body, and Harry only just managed to keep a shudder down. Something about the mark itself was incredibly intimate and the man in particular touching just seemed-- not _wrong_ , per se, (it felt very, _very right_ , in fact) but too intimate to be comfortable. It was as if the man's very magic itself was tracing his palm.

Then the stranger turned his own hand palm up and Harry's eyes widened in shock. There beside his own hand was this strange well dressed man's, with the exact same mark etched on his palm. The black marking seemed almost darker on the man's paler hand.

"Where did you get this mark."

It was not stated as a question. That was a demand if Harry ever heard one. He could feel his imaginary feathers being ruffled and took a steadying breath not to go all righteous Gryffindor with a bone to pick as Hermione liked to call it.

"I got it when the handprint on the metal door burned me," he finally brought himself to say, a strained smile on his face. It wouldn't do to punch Mr. Perfect with the not so perfect attitude in his very perfect face.

"What an... apt retelling," the man drawled back, and by Merlin did he take classes with Snape on how to talk? Because that answer was definitely in Snape territory, only the perfectly smooth and velvety (and is this guy even real?) voice being a key difference.

"So," he grinned up at the maybe-not-real man, "How did you get yours?"

After all the quickest way to unnerve Snape was a joyous and happy Harry. Maybe the same tactics would work on Mr. Perfect.

Apparently not as the stranger didn't so much as twitch before promptly answering, "Much the same," before turning away to continue on his way.

Harry was left to blink at the retreating back in astonishment. Was Harry's presence that unwanted that the man wouldn't stick to the only person he has met in this maze? Didn't a group have a better chance of survival in these sort of situations than a lone person? Well that's other than a food supply shortage but even then cannibalism is on the table. The point is that teaming up is a really good option and Harry's only chance is _walking away._

"Wait!" he cried, running to catch up with the man's long and purposeful strides, "We should stick together."

Red-brown (maroon maybe?) eyes slid to stare blankly at Harry for a moment before returning to the hallway as they took a right turn that Harry hadn't been down yet (it was on the left side when he was walking down the hallway after all).

"And just what could a partnership with you offer me?"

The question was very much sarcastic and Harry had to remind himself that yes, he did look like more of a slob than Ron after a breakup, so he shouldn't take offense.

All he could offer up was was a half grin and a, "Two heads are better than one?" that definitely sounded more like a question than a statement. Considering the annoyed glance he received in reply, the stranger didn't think much of the offer.

Eager to stay with the only person he met, Harry quickly reached in his bag and retrieved a water bottle to be inspected, with a quick, "And I have quite a few of these."

That, at least, seemed to be a good enough reason to let Harry tag along as the man gave a small nod of acceptance before giving a short, "Tom Riddle," which took Harry a few seconds to realize was Mr. Perfect's name.

The name rang a number of bells in Harry's brain and the puzzle of who Tom Riddle was kept Harry from feeling awkward due to the prolonged silence between the pair.

After a good half hour of rummaging through crates in silence and looking for a way out, Harry finally placed the face and name to a person in his memory. Tom Riddle was the Head Boy in Harry's fourth year. The Slytherin and the younger Gryffindor had only met a handful of times, mainly during night patrols where Harry would be swiftly given detention and sent on his way to bed. The last time Harry had seen Riddle was when the upcoming fifth year prefects were called up to the Headmaster's office for a meeting with the graduating prefects to pass on knowledge and tips of their upcoming role.

Honestly Tom Riddle was expected to go exceedingly far by the Hogwarts populace so when he just completely dropped off the map after graduation it caused a bit of a stir. Harry himself hadn't really bothered with the gossip about the former prefect but even he had to admit a small curiosity for the other muggle raised orphan. Of course, it being his OWL year, the teen had quickly forgot the older boy and never thought of him again. It was weird to see him older and in a muggle suit.

Harry watched idly as said man placed another can of preserved fruit in his magically expanded fanny pack. The fact that Tom Riddle was wearing a fanny pack was slightly hilarious in his hysterical mind but he made it work with the rest of his odd magical utility belt.

Harry was immensely glad he had found a crate of backpacks instead.

Just as the teen was gathering his courage to try to make small talk with his stoic companion, a loud chime echoed throughout the area. Harry's wand was immediately in his hand and Riddle looked just as tensed to spring.

_**"Welcome all of you who have been Chosen."** _

The voice that was coming from every direction was simultaneously young and old, raspy and clear, masculine and feminine. Harry's stomach roiled in unease.

**_"I shall be your host for the indefinite future. I go by many names but you all may simply call me Death."_ **

Riddle's face was a mixture of perseverance, seriousness, and the same unease Harry himself felt though much better hidden.

Death? As in Death Death? Harry knows some old families of wizards worship gods and aspects of life, but just like with muggle religions, Harry hadn't ever had much faith in anything except himself and his own power to look after his life.

**_"You have each been Chosen to play a game. My game. Death's Game. The goal is to simply survive until the end."_ **

That wasn't ominous at all. And Harry really wished he could send in a formal complaint because he most certainly did not agree to play.

**_"The prize for winning is the granting of a wish of your choosing by me, Death."_ **

A wish? From Death? Harry wasn't sure he even had a wish in mind to ask of a deity presiding over the dead but he wasn't sure he liked the fervent light that entered his companion's eyes at the words.

**_"My game, despite it's ultimate simplicity, will not be easy. But do not be afraid, you shall have help if you so wish it."_ **

Help would be great, thanks. Harry just wants to leave this whole nightmare behind and wake up in his bed.

**_"Upon each of your right hands is a mark you have been assigned. Your mark is a physical representation of a magical bond. It connects you to your partner in this game. Find your partner, work together, and you have a chance to win."_ **

The teen let out an audible gasp before quickly turning to the older man. Riddle's eyes were also on him, studying his every inch as if to see something he had previously overlooked. Harry suddenly wasn't quite sure if his supposed help would be very helpful.

**_"A last piece of advice before I leave you all to your own devices. When the path in front of you looks bleak and you are on your own to face your fate, look for a handprint like the one that marked you and you may find an answer you like."_ **

That was a clue, Harry could tell that. But just what it meant went clear over his head. Riddles, as stated previously, were not Harry's expertise.

**_"That is all for now. Until we meet again, good luck."_ **

And with that, the previous chill and stillness that was in the air promptly vanished, only leaving questions and confusion in its wake.

"So," Harry began, green eyes staring into red-brown in worry before continuing on hesitantly, "What did that all mean, do you think?"

The man's eyes continued his previous surveyal before a slow smirk snaked across his perfect face.

"It appears that we are partners in this game."

Yes, thank you, Harry got that. The teen shifted from one foot to the next before trying to give a smile that felt more like a grimace and giving a lame, "Right."

Riddles were definitely _not_ Harry's expertise.


	2. The Lobby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry has bad coping methods for his kind of crappy life, Riddle is merciless, and new players are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy May 2nd. Have Harry's Tragic Backstory(tm) as a present.

Harry Potter would be the first person to tell you that life isn't fair.

That isn't to say he doesn't believe people shouldn't try to make life fairer for others or that life can't be enjoyable. It's just-- Bad things happen to good people just like good things happen to bad people. There's nothing you can really do about it except accept it and move on.

That's Harry's motto; Grin and bear it, and you can survive to see another day and find a new reason to smile.

You see, the 'tragedy' of Harry Potter began when he was only a baby. His father was an Auror and had been on the trail of a really shady group of dark wizards. He and his partner, Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, had a lucky break in the case and caught a few of them selling illegal potion ingredients in Knockturn. They were soon after quickly sent off to the interrogation rooms in the Department of Mysteries.

The interrogators got a rather big lead from the captured criminals and the rest of the group and quite a bit of an illegal smuggling ring was immediately captured.

However not all of the group were caught. And those few that weren't sought revenge for their captured comrades.

That's why on the night of October 31st, 1981, a trio of wizards snuck into their family's home in Godric's Hollow while James was working overtime at work, unable to protect his wife and son.

Lily Potter, Harry's mother, died that night, after hiding Harry under the Potter family's invisibility cloak in a wardrobe with a heavy sleeping spell to keep him safe.

When James returned that night from work, it was to unbearable grief and heartbreak. After the sleeping spell wore off, Harry was found by Sirius, who had been floo called over, from his loud crying. Both men had taken comfort in the wailing infant until he tuckered himself out once more. A quick floo call to Remus Lupin, another friend of James, and Harry was left in his care while James was given 'proper space to grieve,' Sirius coming along for emotional support.

At least, that was their excuse. Meanwhile in reality the two were going off on their own revenge plot to kill Lily's murderers.

They managed to find the three culprits within two days, but when all was said and done, there were four corpses to bury.

Sirius, despite being of the main line of the noble and pureblood family Black, was brought up on three accounts of murder and the crime of withholding the registration of the animagus transformation. The family was able to bring the sentence down from 35 years in the cells of Azkaban patrolled by dementors, to 15 years in the cells patrolled by Aurors, however.

So within a number of days, Harry Potter, age 1, was completely orphaned with nowhere to go. Remus wanted to keep him, but the Ministry forbids anyone suffering from Lycanthropy to have custody of, or even work in a field dedicated to, children.

This chain of events is the reason why on the morning of November 5th, 1981, a harried Ministry of Magic worker was stood on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive, with a baby in his arms. Harry was then placed into the arms of the protesting and more than reluctant Petunia Dursley, who had, much like the infant, absolutely no choice in the matter.

So began the next ten years in Suburban Hell. The less said or even thought about those years, the better in Harry's opinion.

Life began looking up when he reached eleven. Professor McGonagall came to the Dursley household to introduce him to magic and kicked up a right fuss about Harry's living conditions. The last month before first year was thusly spent in a room in the Leaky Cauldron. It was a temporary solution, but it was heaven to a young Harry.

Meeting Ron Weasley and then Draco Malfoy on the train forever changed the course of his life, as he demanded the Sorting Hat put him _anywhere but Slytherin_ , the house it had been leaning towards. Red and gold, while overly loud and somewhat obnoxious to the boy who grew up isolated and quiet, soon became colors he was very fond of.

While McGonagall had sworn she would do what she could on her end to make sure he never returned to Privet Drive, Harry had, by that time, lost all belief in authority figures and vowed to fix it himself. First year was spent sending letters to various people in the magical world to find out about himself, his parents, and those they trusted.

This is where Regulus Black came in. A vaunted spellcrafter, magical inventor, and eccentric genius recluse, Regulus would normally ignore any and all mail for days to weeks (to maybe even months on end if he didn't like the sender) but Hedwig was nothing if not a very determined owl.

When Harry got off the Hogwarts Express that year for summer break, it was to be greeted by an awkward Regulus who gave off the clear vibe that he would rather not be there, thank you very much.

Despite his unfriendliness, Regulus became a sort of quasi-dad for Harry over the years. He was distant, of course, but that was just his sparkling personality. He made sure he ate vegetables and did his summer homework. He encouraged him to pursue those magics and activities that brought him joy even if he himself saw no virtue in it (namely Quidditch). And every week like clockwork they both visited his older brother, Harry's godfather, in Azkaban.

Harry quite simply loved Regulus. He was the only father figure he knew. Sirius, on the other hand, was more a weird uncle, but he had loved him too. He had spent hours in the Azkaban meeting room talking about his parents, and pranks, and his aspirations in life with the older Black.

So when he died right before Harry's sixth year started, a few months before he would be released, it was utterly heartbreaking. Those first five years in the magical world were like a paradise. Sure not everything went smoothly (Merlin knows most of his plans always went sideways), but he had felt as if nothing seriously painful could reach him anymore. That notion promptly died with Sirius.

He continued on with his life, of course. He became Head Boy and Quidditch Captain and even managed to get himself landed on a professional team of his choice immediately out of Hogwarts.

The point to the story, however, is that Harry Potter knows quite well that _life isn't fair_. But that does not in anyway mean he is okay with the trial he is now facing.

A determined Tom Riddle.

"I just don't see why we have to cover up the mark," he complained for the third time. And no, the eighteen year old was most definitely not pouting as he looked at the bandages he had brought for _wounds and injuries_ covering their lightning snake marks.

"It's quite simple, really," Riddle calmly replied, as if he hadn't completely ignored Harry's earlier comments, "If they can't see our mark, then they think that we could have the mark that matches theirs. So they will be less likely to kill us outright."

The teen choked on air.

"Kill us?! Why would they kill us?"

Bored red-brown eyes stared at him for several long heavy seconds before the man returned to his task of scanning the hallway they were walking down.

"Are you daft? The one who called himself Death claimed the goal of the game is to survive until the end. How else would are we supposed to win if we don't kill off the competition."

The eighteen year old edged himself away from the taller man in the most unobtrusive way possible. Was this man really talking about killing people with as much care as if he were merely commenting on the weather?

"There could be, I don't know, deadly tasks or games! Nowhere in the speech did... _Death_ speak of killing our opponents."

Taking a sharp right, Riddle snarkily added, "Oh yes, dangerous trials, how fun. It's better we ignore that hassle and just get rid of the other players post haste."

Harry couldn't believe it. Riddle was completely serious. He meant every word and as the teen realized that, he immediately stopped walking.

Riddle noticed this quickly and stopped his stride too, only half turning in question.

Defiant green eyes stared up at the older man's face as Harry stated lowly, "I will not kill anyone."

One eyebrow rose in an emotion Harry couldn't name before Riddle nodded with a grave, "Suit yourself."

The walk through the labyrinth was once more conspicuously silent as Harry refused to speak anymore to the man who thinks killing is okay and Riddle seemingly cannot bother himself to talk to the teen if he doesn't need to.

It was another three quarters of an hour of silence before the unlikely pair came upon a room that had more than just crates or boxes in it.

Shelves lined all walls of the room with an open pathway in on the wall they walked through and out on the opposite wall, obscured by a ceiling high black flame blocking it. Upon the shelves were thousands of potion vials of different shapes and sizes, and each werefilled. In the center of the room was a plain wooden table with an empty iron cauldron atop it beside a plain yellow parchment paper, much like the ones from the cupboard Harry woke up in.

Riddle picked it up before sneering and crumpling it. Harry curiously picked it up from where he slammed it before grimly smiling.

" _Potions, potions everywhere, but not a drop to drink!_

_If you want to get through my fire without burning alive there's only one vial that can help you._

_Happy drinking!_ "

No wonder the note got Riddles knickers in a twist if it was openly taunting them. With the rather sardonic grin still on his lips, Harry joined Riddle in inspecting the potions.

It was a few minutes later as he stuffed what he knew to be a perfectly brewed Helifluer's Hazy Mind potion into his pack, that he found himself commenting to his companion, "Whoever made these potions has to be a Master. I've only ever seen Snape make potions of this quality."

Here, Riddle visibly paused as he turned from his inspection of a pink and sparkly potion.

"Snape, as in the youngest Potion Master of magical England, Snape."

The words were oddly stilted from the man whose words usually flowed like silk, which was odd enough that Harry stopped his own inspection of a yellow-green potion that smelled like pepper and cherry cough syrup that he thought was meant to treat the early symptoms of Dragon Pox to look at the other man quizically.

"Well, I wouldn't call him young by any means, but, uh, yeah."

He had tried to start off joking but at the blank look on the other's face it ended on a rather flat note.

Riddle was turned towards him now, completely focused on the conversation.

"And just how is it that _you_ know Potion Master Snape?" the other man asks.

Harry's not sure he like's Riddle's tone at all, but then again there wasn't much he seemed to like about him at all anymore so maybe it's a moot point. Either way he turns back to the shelf he was inspecting as he replies, "He was my potions tutor."

If anything, his answer had stumped the man even more.

"You had a Potions _Master_ as your _tutor_."

If Riddle was any less composed there would be a hysterical note in his voice, Harry was sure.

"Well I hadn't exactly been applying myself to my studies at all in first year and only got an EE for first years potions and when my guardian saw that he immediately called Snape up to see if he'd take me on and whip me into shape. I think he took it a bit too seriously because he was completely brutal with little eleven year old me," Harry spoke casually, remembering that summer of torture between Snape's hellish potion lessons, Regulus's hellish pureblood lessons, and having to redo his summer homework ten times before Regulus accepted it as perfect enough for an heir.

"I find it hard to believe Master Snape would accept to tutor an eleven year old at all, regardless of the ridiculousness of the reason being only reaching EE on a first year potion exam."

This time Harry knew he did not like the man's tone as it was full of derisive disbelief and scorn. Honestly the man's caustic words were reminiscent of Snape in all his snarky glory, but with all the pros of the voice of a God. It was completely unfair. The teen gave an unhappy scowl of his own before he replied, "Well, it's true. And he accepted because he was best friends with my mother before she died."

There was no reply to his own snappy response which made a small curl of pleasure unfurl in his chest. Maybe he won the battle of words this time.

After a few more minutes of silent potion vial clinking, Harry decided to offer up an olive branch.

"Do you know Snape?" he began slowly only to hurriedly add on, "It's only just, the way you spoke of him makes me think you know about his uh, _sparkling_ personality."

A few beats of silence before a heavy exhale from the older man and, "I have... collaborated with him before in my work."

The teen's eyebrows knit together in confusion. Snape plus teamwork just doesn't compute in his mind. Besides he couldn't think of any reason he'd agree to work with someone as _young_ as Riddle, no matter how talented. Still, "You work in potions?"

"I dabble," is the smooth reply before another, "And they can be quite useful in my line of work."

Well, Harry thought. That told him absolutely nothing.

After that, though, words flowed naturally in the air between them about the potions on the shelves and the ones they would tuck inside their expanded bags. While Harry could say he was definitely not fond of potions, he _could_ say he knew them quite well due to the combined efforts of Snape and Regulus (Regulus, as an inventor, kept plenty of potions lying around and didn't want to be accountable of his psuedo-child getting permanently injured due to a lack of knowledge in potions).

After a good few hours of diligently combing through rows of potions, Riddle called lut that he found the needed potion. It was the Gainsworth Ever-Cool potion which was apparently created by the wizard Elrond Gainsworth, so he could follow his dream to live in an active volcano. Riddle didn't say whether the man succeeded or not, and Harry wasn't sure if he really wanted to think much more on the insanity of wizards anyways.

A mere drop on both of their tongues and they were ready to continue on through the open flames.

It was with no small amount of relief that Harry made it through the flames unscorched. Trusting blindly was a very Gryffindor trait for sure, but the hat _had_ wanted him for Slytherin originally. Him trusting Riddle with his life left a bit of a bad taste in his mouth however.

The flames led into a hallway much narrower than the ones in the prior maze of halls and doors, at the end of which was a single metal door much like the one he gained his mark from. This one, however, had a latch to open it so hopefully there would be no burning this time.

Harry glanced at Riddle to see if he would open it, but he merely raised one eyebrow again (and just _how_ does he do that?) so the teen reached out and pushed the lever down and then pushed with all the might in his 5'7" body.

With agonizing slowness and an ear piercing shriek, the door finally opens completely, opening out into a large circular chamber the length of a professional quidditch field with countless other doors just like the one they opened. Only one door stood out from the others due to the fact that it was a good twenty feet tall, double-doored, and bright eye searing red.

The most interesting thing about the large room was it's occupants. People, grouped together like scared sheep, were seen throughout the room. The low chatter that bounced off the walls showed the mood of uneasiness from the groups at large by the tone. And, above the low chatter, in what was a very recognizable high pitch complaint was-- no, his luck couldn't possibly be _that_ bad, could it?

But it must because that was definitely Draco Malfoy's usual high pitched complaint about his father.

The teen grimaced, suddenly not so eager to join the other players. Riddle apparently had no such qualms however as he confidently strode towards the largest congregation of people, the group in the center of the room and coincidentally the group with Malfoy himself.

Harry reluctantly followed his partner.

As he got closer to see more than the obvious shade of Malfoy blond, Harry noticed the other people in the group. They seemed to be all ranging for the ages of seventeen and thirty. Harry could only recognize a small handful. Standing awkwardly next to Malfoy and looking like he'd rather be on another continent was Colin Creevey, a boy a year younger than him who had had a disturbing obsession with Harry. The teen was sure he had seen the distinctive flash of the underclassman's camera once when he had been showering in the Gryffindor Quidditch Locker room. Harry had actually hoped he would never run into him again.

There was also who Harry thought to be a Ministry worker he had seen before at one of Professor Slughorn's parties. Friedrich Wimple, beater from the Cornwall Crups was also present, as was Cho Chang, a Ravenclaw girl Harry had had an embarrassing crush on along with her then boyfriend Cedric Diggory in his fourth year. When they broke up in his fifth year, Harry had been at the awkward crossroads of being glad or sad about the split.

As the pair came closer, Harry mentally cringed as Colin's eyes landed on the older teen and visibly brightened. This seemed to catch the blond prat's attention enough to change his ongoing tirade that anyone who went to Hogwarts at the same time as him knew by heart into something.

"And the so-called Death said he'd give us help by giving us a partner. But what does he give me, a _Mudblood_ , that's who! What kind of help is a Mudblood Gryffindor who's still in school?"

He says this while showing his mark with disgust for all to see and a look of utter revulsion thrown to Colin. Harry found it oddly fitting that the two who stalked him in school were paired together but what was more fitting was that their mark was of a cartoon ferret with binoculars.

This is about when Riddle moves in to claim the spotlight with all the smoothness of fresh butter and a charming smile.

Harry only watches in a daze of amazement and slight horror as Riddle wraps every person in the chamber into his words. What had previously been a group of around twenty or so witches and wizards was now on the verge of two hundred. And they were all so captivated by him! It was frankly astonishing how a man who some hours ago had calmly spoke of killing all these people had them eating out of his hand.

The information he managed to wring from the assorted group os that no, there were no clues about what to do next, yes, they all had a mark, yes, they were all previously floundering through a strange maze of hallways and doors, and no, they had not all had tasks as difficult as Harry's and his to solve to get to the chamber though they did all have tasks.

As Riddle (Tom?) had just finished giving a speech about the overcoming of adversity in trials through calmness and togetherness (and wow was that a moving speech for all that Harry knew the man himself didn't believe in it one whit), and everyone was beginning to visibly calm and gain their confidence back, a familiar loud chime rang out.

It seemed Death was ready to speak to them once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regulus is best dad
> 
> Colin is incredibly creepy
> 
> And Tom is just a horrible human being

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be an angsty horror one shot. Why dont my aus stay in one genre. This fic was also only written on ipad notes, something new for me.
> 
> The next one will pretty much be Harry: The Origin Story + more of The Game. 
> 
> This drabble was very very much in Harry's pov which is why it was thought heavy with very few observations. Tom's povs will probably be much more scene based. I'll add more characters as they appear. More players in the game to look forward to: Draco Malfoy, Cho Chang, and Terrence Higgs.


End file.
